


Two Play, Foreplay

by Tiriel_35 (Fritiriel)



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Eventual Orgasm, Extended Tease, Foreplay, Lame Plot Device, M/M, Romance, Wilfully!blind Frodo, Wilfully!innocent Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-20
Updated: 2016-05-20
Packaged: 2018-06-09 15:50:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6913486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fritiriel/pseuds/Tiriel_35
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam has a vocabulary deficit; Frodo has the answer…</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two Play, Foreplay

**Author's Note:**

> Gifted to Frodosweetstuff on LJ in 2009 and slightly edited since then—I just forgot to post it here. Originated in response to National Foreplay Day 2003 in the UK, promoted by a purveyor of fun-in-the-bedroom products and intended to be followed, logically enough, by National Orgasm Day. Unfortunately the concept was a flop (in purely _commercial_ terms, that is) and the exercise was never repeated. As a business enterprise, at least…
> 
> The Astute Reader will note that I have, quite distressingly, exceeded my remit. It was Frodo and Sam who insisted that NFD and NOD should here be combined—their wish being forever my command. I trust said Reader may not be _too_ aggrieved by a merger thus unsanctioned by my prompt.

‘Mr Frodo?’

Frodo set cup and saucer carefully on the draining board—the tea having gone cold as usual when he had other things on his mind—and turned.

Sam was standing in the doorway that led to the pantries, looking rather hesitant. He had come through from the farthestmost cellar, where he’d been adjusting the contents of the wine racks. Frodo had recently hosted a number of formal dinners, and rather more bottles than expected had vanished beyond recovery. He noted the flecks of dried whitewash on Sam’s shoulders and in his hair, but resolutely stopped himself from reaching to brush them off as though he had some right to touch at will.

‘What is it, Sam?’

‘Mr Frodo, can I ask you about a word, sir?’

‘A word, Sam? Well, of course you may. What is it—something you’ve been reading?’

‘No!’ 

His answer seemed rather insistent, thought Frodo, and he wondered what could possibly be amiss with Sam. He’d seemed rather preoccupied, these past few days, but today he had been positively distracted, right from the moment he said _Good morning_ , and chinked the cup and saucer with Frodo’s tea onto the nightstand, before opening his bedroom curtains. 

It said much that Frodo had noticed Sam’s agitation, for he was usually busy keeping his own under firm control. It was not, of course, only the _control_ that was firm; these days, Sam’s presence provided his wake up call in more ways than one.

Each of them had spent a busy morning since then, but every time they had spoken, Frodo thought Sam a trifle unsettled for some reason. He could well understand being bothered by a lack of the right word—it happened to him quite often when he was attempting translation from the Elvish. He would have been surprised if Sam _had_ been puzzled by anything in the books he had borrowed recently, though, for Sam’s intelligence was more than equal to making out meaning from context if need be. But one _not_ found in his reading? 

‘It’s—it may not be a very _proper_ word, sir. But I can’t think of anybody else who knows as much about words as you do and I thought maybe you wouldn’t mind…’ 

Sam’s voice trailed off uncertainly, and Frodo suspected he may be wondering what his Gaffer would say to hear him asking an _improper_ question of his master. 

‘Ah. Well, my vocabulary of naughty words used to be quite extensive, Sam, but I haven’t had much use for them recently, so I may be rather rusty! Still, I shall do my best. What word is it?’

‘I don’t think it’s exactly a _naughty_ word, sir,’ Sam said with a mild blush. ‘I just never heard it before and it’s something to do with a game—only I never saw it played so maybe it is a bit naughty. It’s… the word is… fourplay. It’s what our Daisy said when May told her off for spending so much time off in the dark with Ned Berryman—though I never saw four of them go off together. _Naught but a bit o’ fourplay_ , she said to May, only the way she said it, I didn’t like to ask.’

‘Ah.’ Frodo understood now what had prompted the query, and perhaps also what had caused his unsettlement. 

Having attained the status of tween at last, Sam was old enough to receive (and for Gaffer to allow him to accept) the invitation to Dal Braithwaite’s recent birthday party—an occasion hosted and attended by hobbits who were all somewhat older than he. He would have coped, of course, with the more grownup manners and food—and even the drink he was now officially permitted (since, like many teens, he’d actually been enjoying it illicitly for several years now). But Frodo could well imagine him feeling at a loss when it came to the sort of games that may have been played afterwards. 

‘The word is foreplay—f-o-r-e, as in _before,_ Sam.’

‘So what does it mean, exactly, Mr Frodo?’

Frodo sighed inwardly. Of all the questions he _didn’t_ need to have Sam ask him. ‘Foreplay is… well it’s… it’s making someone feel very good,’ he said, rather lamely.

‘ _Before_ you play this game, then?’

‘Well… yes, of sorts,’ Frodo agreed—and, _Oh!_ the thought of Sam, _playing_ with him…

‘What game?’ The simple fact that Sam needed to ask the question was one of many reasons Frodo _couldn’t_ play with him. Sam was far too young to be…

With a deep breath for courage to enable him to carry this off without a betraying blush of his own, Frodo said, ‘The game that two hobbits play together—mostly in bed, Sam.’ He almost managed it, too; but then Sam looked directly at him, and Frodo’s _face_ wasn’t the only place where heat was rising.

‘Oh,’ Sam said, also blushing, his gaze dropping quickly to his toes. ‘I’d like to play that game. Stands to reason that if one hobbit can make himself feel good, two hobbits together should be even better…’ 

Ridiculously, Frodo had not really considered the fact that Sam was—well, it seemed he _was_ old enough to know exactly which game one hobbit could play, alone in his bed. But that didn’t mean…

‘So how does it go, then?’ Sam’s face was very earnest.

‘W-What?’ Frodo was struggling internally with the notion that teaching was always best done through showing. He had to drag his concentration back from the sudden image of Sam, no longer alone in his bed—nor even alone in _Frodo’s_ bed—and from a rather complex move his mind had been demonstrating on Sam’s wonderfully naked body.

‘This foreplay, sir? I ought to know, Mr Frodo. I felt such a fool when they were all full of sly grins, and laughing at me behind my back. They made me feel like a teen again, with their nudging, and their secret smiles and such—and I’m not.’

No, he wasn’t. And what that _almost_ grown-hobbit physique was doing to Frodo now, merely by being thought upon, was most definitely adult. And—Frodo couldn’t help himself by now, he had to look, surreptitiously and rather shamefacedly—there was definite evidence to support the theory that Sam was as alive to possibility as Frodo himself, now. But at Sam’s age, merely _talking_ about such things could—well, anyway…

Moving carefully, Frodo pulled out one of the kitchen chairs and sat down, gingerly, indicating to Sam that he should do the same. They faced each other across the table. It was safer thus, Frodo reasoned, with that small part of his mind still available for such practical matters. He tucked each foot resolutely behind a leg of his chair, to avoid even the slightest possibility that one or other may take a mind of its own, and sidle off to stroke gently at Sam’s well-muscled calves, and the thatch of bright hair spilling silkily across strong, straight toes. 

The weather had been wet and quite miserable for several days now, hence Sam’s occupation in the pantries rather than the garden. His feet were therefore without their usual coat of grass clippings, the odd dozen or so of seedheads, and an intermittent skim of garden soil. Frodo knew that silkiness quite well, for he had once been called upon to cold compress a sprained ankle for Sam, in the days when _Sam’s leg_ was still simply Sam’s leg, and holding it fast had caused no such tremors as the memory, upon which Frodo’s imagination was wont to dwell when Sam was absent and he needed that reminder.

He had caught himself more than once, observing the agility of Sam’s toes; the way he would use them to steady a line while he knocked in the peg to tie it to, thus ensuring neat rows for drawing drills or the planting out of seedlings; the way they held taut the strings on a parcel while he melted the sealing wax, ready to drip it deftly onto the knot. 

It had been quite easy, thenceforth, to delegate the entire business of parcel-sealing, on the grounds that, ‘You make a far neater job of it, Sam!’ Indeed, certain elderly relatives had begun to remark upon Frodo’s thoughtfulness in despatching bulky mathoms, each of them requiring large quantities of brown paper and yards and yards of string—adorned with many a blob of bright red wax—at random times of the year. 

In fact, he had almost decided he was developing something of a foot fetish, the way his eyes were drawn to those fascinating feet. But when it became clear that the only ones that caused him even a momentary shiver were Sam’s, he realised with some relief that, in the general run of things, he was not.

‘Mr Frodo?’ 

Sam’s voice broke into his reverie, rather fortunately, at the point at which Frodo’s mind, whilst acknowledging the perfection of Sam’s nether digits, had, in fact risen inexorably higher, though the table between them formed an all too opaque barrier to the direct contemplation of—

He shook his head and forced his mind back to Sam’s dilemma. 

‘Sam, I ought not to—’

‘Leave me in the dark about these things, Mr Frodo? If you don’t mind, that is?’

 _Mind?_ Frodo drew a deep breath. ‘No, Sam, I don’t mind.’ Which was possibly at once the least and the most truthful statement he had made throughout this conversation. He could do this, he could. He could keep to matters theoretical, and his hands, if not his imagination, off Samwise.

‘Well, now. You know, of course that—well, that some things feel better than others?’ He concentrated his gaze on his own hands, resting on that peskily solid table top, for to look at Sam may render it impossible to actually say these things at all.

When Sam did not reply at once, Frodo risked a peep upward at his face, to find him with eyes similarly cast down, and blushing rather furiously now. His only response was a swift, embarrassed nod.

Frodo cleared his throat, and continued, ‘And not every—one,’ he managed to avoid the word _body_ , over which his tongue would definitely have stumbled—

_…would have swept long and languorous strokes over a chest honeyed by the warmth of the sun, graced with an alluring patch of golden curls, between two plump and perfect nipples…_

Clearing his throat once more, he resumed, ‘Not everyone likes the same things. What may feel rather wonderful to me, _(Sam’s hands on his bare skin, anywhere at all…)_ would possibly not feel the same to—’ he very nearly said _you_ , but the image that accompanied the combination of word and thought, was not lightly to be set loose, so he quickly amended it, ‘—to someone else.’

Sam seemed dubious. ‘Surely the same touch should feel the same to everybody?’ He had no trouble with the latter word, but Frodo had to speak sternly to his imagination, and examine his fingernails quite intently to avoid his eyes following the trend of his thought. 

‘It seems not, Sam. Everyone is different, so they feel things differently.’ The notion that telling was less effective than showing, returned strongly. Surely if he simply demonstrated—a brief touch couldn’t be _that_ wrong, could it? 

_…his fingers running lightly, longingly, from the crown of Sam’s golden head, over sun-tinted muscle and sinew, and then down_ —Frodo’s own stomach muscles clenched, now - _down below his waistband… where the sun never reached, and Sam would be pale and oh so tempting…_

He shook his head again, hoping to clear it. ‘There are many different—um—ways you can try. That’s part of the fun, actually—finding out what each of—’ he so nearly said _us_ that the gulp as he swallowed the word was quite audible in the quiet kitchen, ‘—what you and your lass enjoy most.’ And hadn’t _that_ word taken some getting out! 

But Sam had asked about foreplay as between lads and lasses, and that was how he’d want to use it. He didn’t need to know that Frodo’s own experience was not wholly confined to lasses, nor that Arlo had been more expert in this than any lass that had ever laid hands on Frodo. 

_On_ Sam’s _hands—and nowhere_ else _!_ he told himself sternly, and plunged in with the request before he could think twice about it.

‘Put out your hands, please, Sam? This is just one way that—that I used to—’ Frodo swallowed again, ‘—used to really like—when I was younger, of course.’ 

Sam placed both hands, palms down, on the kitchen table, his head on one side, face alight with interest and expectation. Slowly and delicately, Frodo trailed his own fingers from Sam’s wrists to his fingertips, barely skimming the layer of fine hair that glinted an almost invisible gold. And although _he_ was providing the touch, the sensation of Sam’s skin—the warmth of it so close beneath his own—ignited tiny, hot flashes which raced unerringly to where Frodo could well have done without the extra stimulation.

 _Used to like, indeed!_ He had _liked_ doing it—and had very much liked having it done _for_ him—this, and so much more. But here and now—this was far beyond mere _liking_. This was doing it for—to— _with_ Sam…

‘Oh!’ Sam jumped, snatched his hands back, and looked at them wonderingly. ‘That was—nice, Mr Frodo. I never had my hands feel like that before.’ And he put them eagerly forth again.

‘Turn them over, please.’ Frodo’s own hands were practically trembling now. His stomach clenched again, remembering his long ago lover and the effect of that gentle touch—a stroke so light it was almost not there, with an effect unbelievably potent; remembering too, where it had led then—and he wished with all his heart that he had never begun this exercise in theory, with the hobbit he never could have in that same way.

But this was a gift he could offer, to make of it what Sam would. Perhaps Sam would not feel it as he had—and if he did, that could be nothing to Frodo. He must only hope that whomever Sam gifted it to in his turn would appreciate the care—maybe even the love, too—that Sam would undoubtedly put into his caresses.

Sam’s strong, capable hands waited quiescent on the table, fingers curling slightly upward—his eyes fixed on them as though he didn’t dare look at his master. Gaffer wouldn’t have approved of this for a single minute, of course; Sam was very likely torn between his thirst for knowledge and a healthy respect for his father’s constant warning as to _knowing his place_.

Recklessly, Frodo banished all such thoughts from his mind and brushed a finger, scarce a touch at all, from the soft skin at the pulse point of Sam’s wrists to the tips of his longest fingers, then down again, to swirl intricate patterns, slow patterns of infinite stealth, upon those broad palms. He dared a glance at Sam’s face, knowing quite well that he must not meet his eyes, for he could never then maintain a purely _theoretical_ position in this impromptu lesson.

Sam’s eyes were fortunately closed now, but the hitch in his breathing, and his expression—tight, concentrated, _needy_ —told Frodo that he was not alone in his appreciation of feather-light foreplay. More than that, though, it brought back to him the realisation that what he was doing was both dangerous and completely wrong. 

Dangerous, because he had reached the absolute limit of his ability to continue with the pretence that this was merely a practical demonstration of what Sam had asked to know. Wrong, because Sam was young and innocent and Frodo was both old enough to know better, and his employer into the bargain. The shame of knowing that he was taking advantage of Sam, swept him abruptly from his chair. 

‘That’s just an example, to get you started, as it were,’ he said, with some difficulty. ‘Just remember that—that wherever you may bestow it, a slow and gentle touch is often the most pleasurable, and you’ll be fine. I wish you all luck with your pretty lass, whoever she may be. And now I really must get on.’

He turned to leave the kitchen, clinging to the last shreds of dignity and control, but as he reached the doorway, he paused. Keeping his back to Sam, he cleared his throat yet again. He should provide Sam all the information he may need, in order to help him, no matter the cost to himself. 

‘It— _that_ feels—feels really good, if—if you—on really _sensitive_ places.’ 

That was it, he could manage no more. His pace was necessarily curbed to a walk, though his instinct was to rush away as fast as he could, to shut himself in the study. The bedroom would have been too much of a giveaway, of course, and the bathroom even worse, for the tiled floor meant that sound carried most effectively. 

Breathing heavily, he collapsed onto the chair by his desk, giving himself an admonitory pinch. Sam should not hear anything untoward, if Frodo could help it. 

_Fool, fool, fool, FOOL! That was stupid and reckless in the extreme, and you know it! Sam needs time to grow into his own hobbit, and he does not need a lovesick old_ nincompoop _taking advantage of his youth! He probably wanted to know so that he could use it on some pretty young lass he has his eye on already—Rose Cotton, like as not—and you came within an ames ace of ruining it for him forever!_

The thought was more effective than cold water—that his actions may deny Sam the chance ever to know what sweet enticement a lover’s lightest touch could bring. Frodo sighed and picked up his quill, dipping its nib into the inkwell and squaring up to the massive ledger that awaited him. A few entries in the _crop yield gain/loss in respect of previous year/s_ and _seed requirement/present year_ columns should be more than enough to depress whatever intention his mind and body may have of lingering lovingly on a hobbit whose perfections could never be Frodo’s to truly cherish.

###

Despite an extremely restless night, Frodo awoke at once when Sam tapped lightly on the door the following morning. He came in, as always, with the ritual cup of tea, setting it down to draw back the curtains and murmur a few quietly cheerful words about the weather. Even a sky weeping with rain could wrest a positive comment from Sam, as to how much better a slow soak would be for soil in need of water.

He had provided Frodo’s wake-up call almost since the day Bilbo left—since the day, in fact, that Frodo had almost slept through his first appearance before the Farthing Moot, when the principle item of business consisted of formally accepting one Baggins in place of another. Sam had saved him that embarrassment, coming in with early tea and a respectful, ‘Good morning, Mr Frodo! Nice bright day for a journey, sir, and breakfast’s all but ready when you are.’ 

He never seemed to mind if Frodo—in no hurry to rise, when there was nowhere in particular he must be that day—merely grunted in reply and turned over for an extended snooze. But that had not happened for some time now; these days, an extra few minutes of sleep could not possibly compete with his eagerness for the day’s first glimpse of Samwise—even if Frodo must cant one knee modestly to prevent him from realising exactly _how_ pleased his master was to see him. 

Sam never lingered for more than the ritual word or two about the weather, correctly leaving Frodo to drink his tea in privacy—which was fortunate, of course. An entire conversation conducted at his bedside—when Sam was delectably morning fresh and Frodo already completely aroused—must soon enough (and gentlehobbitly manners notwithstanding) have degenerated into something completely uncalled for and also _terribly_ inappropriate. Something along the lines of, ‘Sam, I love you. Please get into this bed and ravish me!’

On this particular morning, however, Frodo knew himself unequal even to the most limited of exchanges. He didn’t roll over to face Sam, when he heard the quiet clink of china; didn’t yawn and stretch into his usual, conveniently discreet position as the curtain hooks began their rattle along the rails, and sunshine flooded into the room. Deliberately, he didn’t stir at all, _willing_ Sam to believe him asleep. 

‘Nice and sunny today after all that rain, Mr Frodo,’ Sam said, ‘and warm as anything! It’ll bring the garden on a treat, this will!’ 

There was a silence, and Frodo held still, waiting—expecting next to hear the door close again, quietly. 

Instead, the very faintest of sounds—foothair, barely grazing the nap of carpet—told him that Sam was approaching the bed, and he willed his breath not to catch, now. 

‘Mr Frodo?’ Sam’s voice was not much above a whisper this time—so soft and low that Frodo had no difficulty whatever imagining the words of love he would one day murmur to his chosen lass. He swallowed against the tightness in his throat, and hoped the sound didn’t echo in Sam’s ears the way it did in his.

What happened next was definitely _not_ a part of the usual morning ritual. 

The weather was indeed as fair and warm as Sam had said, and Frodo had not needed to sleep the way he usually did, curled tight beneath the covers—like a dormouse in winter, Sam had once told him, in the days when such a comment would occasion nothing more than a shared laugh. Lying on his side, right arm above the coverlet, his nightshirt alone was more than enough covering for this fine morning of late Spring. But he shivered now as its fabric brushed against his skin—a soft caress of worn white cotton that drifted lightly from shoulder almost to elbow. 

Frodo squeezed his eyes shut and froze, waiting for Sam to… for Sam to… His mind tumbled over and over the many wonderful things Sam may or may not do next. But what he actually heard was the click of the door handle settling back into place. He rolled onto his back, opening his eyes, and groaned aloud. Had he really believed that Sam would—? 

_Baggins, you are beyond foolish!_

Whatever he might like to imagine, that had _not_ been a caress. _Had_ it?

No, of course not. Sam had merely reached out to shake him by the shoulder, that was all. He’d simply thought better of it at the last moment—probably assuming his master had spent yet another late night amongst his books, and was thus in real need of a lie-in.

The only explanation Frodo could find for that momentary—and quite delicious—illusion was that he had quite simply taken leave of his senses at last. He had begun to hallucinate his dearest wishes—a not unusual side effect, so he understood from his reading, of unreciprocated passion. That _must_ be it because Sam wouldn’t _do_ that, would he? He wouldn’t touch his master inappropriately, really he wouldn’t. 

More was the pity. 

Frodo sighed and reached for the damp washcloth; he had found it prudent of late to place one usefully in concealment by his bedside each night.

###

The kitchen was redolent of bacon and sausage, already waiting on a warmed plate alongside a generous quantity of mushrooms. Sam was sliding a pair of plumply orange-yolked eggs onto the fried bread.

‘There you go, sir,’ he said, and set the plate neatly down in Frodo’s usual place at table. Everything else was also in its accustomed spot—teapot in its knitted cosy, with milk jug and sugar bowl, cup, saucer and teaspoon; toast rack full, honey waiting in the cut glass jar with its twizzly beechwood dipper usefully to hand; butter curled onto a dish exactly as Bell had taught Sam was the Quality way, bread ready for slicing should Frodo require it. Everything, in fact, that a hobbit could possibly require to make a truly excellent breakfast; everything, that was, except a place laid for Sam. There was only an already steaming mug, waiting quietly beside the teapot.

‘You’re not joining me this morning, Sam,’ Frodo said, and hoped it hadn’t sounded quite as petulant as he suspected it might. He simply _enjoyed_ his breakfast more if Sam were there. At busy times, though, he would often take a mug, and maybe a slice of toast, out into the garden with him; this being Sam’s second breakfast, of course, his day having begun so much earlier than Frodo’s.

‘Weeds wait for no hobbit in weather like this, sir,’ Sam said, setting the frying pan aside to cool and checking the fire in the stove, ‘so I’d best be off out there afore they gets ahead of me! Gaffer reckons as the wet spell, with this warm weather following so close behind, means the frosts are safely over for the year. I’ll be making a start, today, on getting the tender bedding out of the frames and into the ground.’

Tempted though he may be, Frodo resolutely resisted unseemly comment that must surely lead to an invitation that Sam should, without delay, sample the tenderness to be found within _his_ bedding; and merely nodded.

With less enthusiasm than it deserved, he forked up a chunk of sausage, smeared it liberally with yolk, dabbed it into a pool of the brown sauce that Daisy made almost as well as Bell used to, and—almost morosely—chewed the result. Goodness—whatever was the _matter_ with him this morning, behaving like a lovelorn tween? Maybe he couldn’t help the first part of that, but he was out of his tweens and _ought_ by now to have grown into a hobbit who was adult enough to know there were things he couldn’t have in this life—the foremost of which was Sam Gamgee. 

Yesterday’s little episode had clearly unsettled him far more than he realised.

‘There’s the rest of the ham, and plenty of salad stuff for lunch, sir, and a fowl stewing in the bottom oven for your supper. I’ll pop a few taters and whatnot in, afore I goes home.’ Sam lifted the kettle from its place on the range and poured a generous amount of hot water into the washing up bowl, swishing the soap cage in preparation for Frodo’s dishes when he finished eating. All being as prepared as he could make it, he was ready to go—obviously keen to answer the call of his beloved garden, and not reckoning on wasting much more time on his master today.

Frodo tried not to sigh. ‘Very well, Sam,’ he said. ‘Thank you. Enjoy yourself out there!’

‘Yessir!’ Sam said. He picked up his mug of tea, walking quietly behind Frodo’s chair on his way to the door and— 

Frodo almost choked on a mouthful of fried bread as Sam’s shadow passed swiftly through the open door and out into the garden. 

He surely had not imagined _that_? 

A hobbit with his mind on his breakfast—well, _mostly_ on his breakfast—simply did _not_ imagine a feather-light brush of fingers to the back of his neck. And he could scarcely blame the sudden constriction within his trousers on a meal as yet barely begun. 

Frodo was certain—absolutely _convinced_ —that every hair on his head was actually rising now, each one seeking again the touch that had just set his heart racing and every inch of his skin alight with need.

He gasped, swallowed, and closed his eyes, willing himself to live the moment—the _sensation_ —once again. There was he, sitting quietly at the table, enjoying his breakfast, and there was Sam, walking silently from the kitchen sink toward the door. There went Sam’s left hand, reaching for the mug of well-sweetened tea that awaited him by the teapot. And here— _here_ was his right hand in an almost casual upward drift; _almost_ casual but quite definitely threading the hair that rested on Frodo’s collar… quite _definitely_ gliding, swift yet subtle, across the skin beneath. And, yes, there went the havoc, skittering wildly through a body that was already more than receptive… 

Sam had touched him. Devastatingly. Again.

But, no. There went his _imagination_ —more vivid than ever, where Sam was concerned—running away with him once more. All Sam had done was to set a hand to the back of Frodo’s chair, merely easing his way between it and the dresser. That his fingers had grazed his master’s hair was no more than an accident in passing. It was possibly just a _little_ surprising that he had not instantly apologised; but perhaps he had considered that, hair not being sentient, Frodo would not notice.

But _not_ noticing Sam had been impossible for some time. Frodo had come to the conclusion that his senses had somehow honed themselves to a sharper awareness of everything that Sam did or said—or simply _was_ ; so it was perhaps not really surprising that even his _hair_ would react to Sam’s touch. 

The keen edge of want settled to its accustomed level, and he found he could breathe easily once more—though the morsel of bacon currently impaled upon his fork could induce in him only a feeling of nausea. It was all the fault of that little talk, he thought, with a revivifying draught of tea to help matters along. That same vivid—all right _fevered_ , when it came to Sam—that same fevered imagination had spent the entire night conjuring dreams in which Sam’s fingers had touched him absolutely everywhere, and Frodo had touched right back again, with escalating and perfectly predictable results that in the dream had been more than satisfying; the recurring stickiness of reality being never a problem there. But Frodo would have traded its absence in a trice for the chance to share that satisfaction in truth. 

Such dreams always left him feeling more bereft than ever, of course, and a temporary increase in his awareness of Sam was really only to be expected.

He took another deep breath and opened his eyes. The half-full plate before him had completely lost its allure. With a sigh he finished the cup of tea and collected up the remains of his breakfast; Daddy Twofoot’s hens would really enjoy their supper, he thought—with a brief hope that their digestions might not be impaired by what was, after all, a form of cannibalism. But then, Twofoot fed their baked, crushed eggshells back to them as part of the grit they apparently needed, so perhaps a small amount of actual egg wouldn’t hurt. 

More important, though, was that Sam should not be hurt by his scraping of a perfectly prepared meal into the waste bucket. He placed the uneaten toast artistically on top, and resolved to peel his own potatoes for the evening meal—sufficient that the parings would finally conceal completely the incriminating evidence of his loss of appetite. And he would slip along The Row with the bucket himself, to save Sam the effort and himself the possibility of discovery.

###

The next few days were a form of sweet torture and surely equal—at least in the annals of love—to anything Beren could have suffered in the dungeons of Morgoth.

They were marked by an inordinate and surely increasing amount of _possibly_ unintentional touching and of _almost-but-not-quite_ caresses. Of Sam moving hastily and, on the face of it, quite innocently out of Frodo’s way; preceded, of course, by an equally inordinate amount of Sam being _in_ it. Each time, it seemed, a different part of Frodo was the happy beneficiary. 

There was the momentary and _maybe_ accidental easing of one broad shoulder alongside Frodo’s; and a _perhaps_ unintended but nonetheless close encounter of a shapely, well-rounded hip that for one dizzying instant grazed against his own as Sam squeezed deftly past. 

Then, of course, a strong arm very likely _would_ pass close to Frodo, were Sam to stretch for jar or packet or tool on a shelf just above him, and thus lightly brush his hair in passing. Their hands _were_ quite liable to clash awkwardly if they reached as one for a single item; or their feet, should one of Sam’s snake out to retrieve something dropped that had landed, quite fortuitously, just by Frodo’s own; so that for seconds—or ages—on end, foothair _must_ merge and tease, the dark with the fair. 

On one most notable occasion, there was a _possibly_ inadvertent—but appreciably protracted—shift of Sam’s thigh, tight against Frodo’s bottom, as they scrambled together on hands and knees to replace a smouldering log, fallen from the hearth—and hadn’t _that_ set things alight…

Each occurrence was unfailingly marked by rapid disappearances on two fronts: of Sam from wherever the incident may have taken place; and of almost every spare ounce of blood that Frodo possessed, to active service southward of his waistband. 

Marked also by a complete inability in Frodo to do anything other than stare after Sam, mouth opening and closing in fair emulation of the huge, uncatchable pike that had for years lurked just out of range at one of his favourite fishing places.

There had been further possibly-not- _wake-up_ -but-quite-distinctly- _arousing_ touches to the sleeve of his nightshirt. Frodo had hunted in vain for a thinner one—preferably with all the texture of a new-made cobweb; such a change _could_ , with some plausibility, be ascribed to the warmer weather. And the essential washcloth had, of course, been called increasingly into play.

He had begun to feel anticipatorily dizzy whenever Sam came into a room with him at all; and by the time he took to his bed at night, he was quite certain that if Sam had entered his room then—for whatever innocent reason—and cast so much as a heavy glance toward his master, all would have been over without Frodo having even a moment to appreciate it. So to speak.

**Part Two**

It was teatime and Frodo went in search of Sam, bearing a tray with tea and a plate of still-warm scones, split and thickly buttered. He was perfectly capable of cooking for himself despite all Sam’s conviction to the contrary, and had whisked up a fresh batch; baking providing a far more soothing occupation than any accounts ledger.

It was quite definitely time for a break, he realised, when the row on which he was working—which should have tallied a formidable rank of figures whose import he had quite forgotten—contained instead an entry which read, quite simply, _Sam+Frodo= …_ the dots bearing for him a significance that stretched far beyond mere omission. 

Sam’s welcome seemed just a trifle stilted, and Frodo couldn’t quite decide if the difficulty in meeting his master’s eyes was his usual embarrassment at being waited on, or something more. He remained somewhat subdued as Frodo poured and sugared the tea and passed over his mug, but when asked about his progress so far, his telling began quite easily: what he had achieved already today, what was still to do, and just how this fitted into The Grand Plan for the garden this season. His enthusiasm soon swept away any lingering awkwardness and all was as usual between them. 

In fact, things had returned so far toward normal—with all of Frodo’s distraction concentrated upon the sight of a pink tongue flicking out to collect stray crumbs (to say nothing of buttery smears)—that, when Sam collected mugs and plates back onto the tray and lifted it to pass it to him, Frodo had almost forgotten the touching issue. He dropped his gaze hastily, hoping Sam may not have noticed his preoccupation with matters rather more personal than the tricky question of whether purple petunias or blue lobelia would make the better show alongside the marigolds this year. 

His mind directed once more to the practicality of accepting the tray, Frodo curled his fingers quite confidently beneath its rim, the weight transferring with ease from one to the other. But then— 

Frodo’s mind shut down so fast that Sam was three-quarters of the way toward the potting shed before the blood returned to his brain and thought was possible once more. And it was a very good thing that his grip on the tray was suddenly so tight that his knuckles showed stark white, or what had occurred would have proved quite _literally_ shattering, too. 

No, he really had _not_ imagined that. 

The passing of a tea tray from one hobbit to another did _not_ require the softly stealthy stroke of strong and calloused hands from fingertip to wrists that had been susceptible always to that gentle blandishment, though Frodo was perfectly prepared henceforth to institute such a requirement; provided only that it was limited to such transactions as they occurred within the confines of Bag End—and even then, _strictly_ to those between himself and Sam. 

And it was quite definitely not rampant _imagination_ that was currently making a concerted bid to burst the buttons right off his trousers. 

He contrived somehow to make his way back into the smial and to deposit his burden on the table without the loss of more than an odd teaspoon—and his wits, of course. For he was surely losing them now—Sam couldn’t _really_ be mounting a deliberate campaign with the object of driving his master right out of them. Could he? 

He wouldn’t _deliberately_ tease his master into an overwhelming state of desire, then walk away and leave him practically vibrating with need—would he? Ah, but Sam didn’t know of his ability to arouse that master, simply by _being_ , so he couldn’t know about the vibration either. 

_Could_ he?

###

Frodo shut himself away in the study for the remainder of the day. When Sam knocked to say that he had finished his work and was leaving, Frodo’s supper being well underway and only needing to be served, he only called a reply through the closed door. Once sure that Sam had left, he went through to the kitchen and removed his meal to the cool of the larder.

He had a great deal of thinking to do before he could face Sam again—in the parlour at first, until gathering shadow sent him early to bed rather than face the bother of lighting lamps. But light or dark, his mind travelled the same ground over and over, constantly at war with his body’s desire to relive the many ways, accidental or not, that Sam had touched him, since that innocent question had brought about this crisis in Frodo’s conscience. 

Until now, it had been possible to ascribe each and every one of the incidents that had so disturbed his equanimity (amongst other things), to an imagination spiralling wildly out of his control.

That secret touch beneath the tea-tray, though, that _must_ have been deliberate—but was it really proof of anything, beyond a wish on Sam’s part to make his master feel good? Had Frodo, in fact, overestimated the extent of Sam’s appreciation of feather-light foreplay? Could Sam actually believe it to be simply a pleasant, even a _friendly_ thing to offer, and not as rivetingly arousing to him as it was to Frodo. He may—it seemed unlikely but it _was_ just possible—he _may_ be merely reciprocating what had been offered to him, and in the same altruistic manner.

Frodo had, however unwillingly—no, not unwillingly, only _selfishly_ , wanting to give Sam pleasure under a convenient pretext. He _had_ introduced Sam to the delights of foreplay. But he had done so with the intention, if never the wish, that Sam may use such arts to seduce a lass into his arms and, eventually, his bed. He had made that point at the time, quite plainly (if reluctantly), he thought, so that Sam should not suspect him of any ulterior motive. So whatever Sam was doing, he was doing with full intent.

In truth, Sam’s touching of him, uninvited—as between servant and master—was as inappropriate as his own must be, from master to servant, if unwelcome; and, Frodo reasoned further, for _Sam_ to do any such thing was a risk far greater than his own. 

An outright and even angry rejection might not only mean Sam losing his post as gardener and servant at Bag End and, lacking a reference, never finding another. Far more cogently, his Gaffer would probably—and despite the recent entry into tweenage—tan his son’s backside from here to Bywater and back again if he so much as suspected him of _propositioning the Master_. 

Frodo grinned wryly at the thought, but quickly sobered. That was, in essence, exactly what Sam had done; what Frodo remained uncertain of, was _why_.

If all he intended was the opportunity for further foreplay with that master, it may be better for both if Sam _were_ to seek another post—with the best reference that Frodo could provide. For he could not— _would_ not—betray his love for Sam in such a casual, unfeeling way. He needed Sam in his life and in his bed. He needed Sam’s love. But if Sam wanted no more of him than the transient pleasures of touch, then Frodo could not continue to keep him near. It would hurt too much, to have him so close and even willing, yet so far from what Frodo truly wanted. And it would not be fair to Sam.

The day dawned at last, after a night of repeated awakenings. But awake or asleep, his uncertainties vied relentlessly in Frodo’s mind and dreams. In some, Sam was every bit as loving as he could wish, and that one real instance of Sam’s hand delicately stroking him overlaid all earlier memories, so that Frodo had never in his life made love with anyone but Sam. In others—far less palatable if perhaps more likely—Sam was no more than accommodating of his master’s need for touch, until proficient enough himself to approach whichever lass he’d an eye to.

Frodo knew he had come at last to the end of his tether. He simply had to _know_ one way or the other, whether the stealthy slide of any part of Sam against Frodo, and most specifically (since he was all but naked here, barring the thinnest garment he could find) of fingers on night shirt, arousing far beyond their reach, could mean the _more_ that he so fervently desired; or whether Sam’s waking of him today must be the last. 

He still hoped, of course; he _really_ hoped that both of them wanted the same thing; that it may be possible for Sam to love him in return. But the more he thought about it, the less sure he seemed to become. A stratagem of sorts was clearly called for, and the sooner the better. He was determined though that, should all go awry, the blame would be his alone. Whatever the reason, were Sam to leave his service, no fault should be laid at his feet. Frodo sighed, composed himself, and waited.

###

The morning ritual began as ever with Sam’s cheerful comment on the day’s prospects— ‘Looks like being a warm ’un again, Mr Frodo—the first strawberries’ll be ripe afore we knows it, if this keeps up!’—over the clink of china. A brisk rattle of curtain hooks let in bright sunshine to form a momentary halo around his head, that Frodo just caught from the corner of his eye.

For _this_ morning, Frodo was not lying turned away from Sam—he was on his back, covers pushed down as if they were making him too hot. Sam was not to know—yet—that he was the principle cause of that heat, rather than the prevailing weather; or that it was against his gaze that those blameless covers must be artfully and concealingly bunched, just below waist level. Frodo had considered dispensing with the nightshirt altogether, deciding in the end that such an unprecedented action may unsettle Sam too much. 

He had, however, deliberately left undone every button on that nightshirt, the fingers of one hand still artistically entangled, so it may seem to Sam that he had dragged it aside in search of cooler air. The other lay free across his middle—both hands outside the covers for a definite reason. 

He was breathing deeply in order to simulate sleep, his eyes _almost_ closed; the very thinnest sliver of sight seeped through the dark fringe of his lashes.

As Sam approached the bed, Frodo hoped that lash-filtered smile may be as fond as it looked. It took a considerable effort to keep his breathing steady whilst Sam simply stood there, regarding him. Even with his view so restricted, Frodo rather thought that gaze may be appreciative, for Sam was concentrating quite intently on the unaccustomed stretch of skin so obligingly displayed by the absence of nightshirt. 

Frodo’s artistry had stretched to the _almost_ uncovering of a single nipple—little more than a hint, from where Sam was standing, he hoped; perfect for a tease that could be explained away as accidental, should that be necessary. He intended—with some success, if Sam’s suddenly indrawn breath was shock of the _good_ kind—that the sight may bring him into the right frame of mind for what Frodo sincerely hoped would follow. 

Of course, Sam may not have the same nipple fetish that Frodo admittedly possessed, but Frodo cherished great hope that he may be as open to instruction—in the giving, if not the receiving—as ever he had been in the rudiments of grammar. 

Sam’s tongue came out—a quick and nervous swipe to wet his lips—and Frodo was sure his breathing had quickened, too. He was having to really work at keeping his own to a steady rhythm, now, and he wished that Sam would get on and _do_ something. 

Sam did. He took his bottom lip between his teeth—his habit when faced with a challenge; out in the garden over some knotty problem with the year’s rotation, perhaps; or when tackling a book that stretched the limits of his understanding. 

It was a habit that had begun to affect Frodo deeply, for it spoke to him always of the mobility of Sam’s mouth; of how agile his tongue may be, and where Sam may bestow it, given sufficient encouragement; how his teeth seemed exactly made to provide nibbling of the most deliciously arousing kind; and how wonderful those lips would feel, warm and wet and sucking strongly, on any single part of Frodo… 

He swallowed—too loudly, he thought. Letting his head sag further into the pillow, he tugged the entangled hand a little sideways to distract Sam from realising he was awake. He knew at once that it had worked, for he could almost _feel_ Sam’s eyes travel the slope of his neck; feel its heat slide down and down over slightly damp and sleep-flushed skin, to the now fully revealed nipple. It was also fully aroused, now, and standing to attention—seeking, in fact, exactly the kind of the attention for which the rest of Frodo was practically panting. 

He began to wonder how much longer he could keep up this pretence. But he couldn’t make his move—not yet, for Sam had actually done nothing as yet that any efficient—if possibly over-inquisitive—servant may not have done of a morning. And to move without a sign from Sam would be a terrible mistake, may lead to misunderstandings, to anger—to parting, even. It was not a risk Frodo was prepared to take, for to lose Sam—as friend and expert gardener if not as lover—was a deprivation never to be borne if he could help it.

Seemingly satisfied that Frodo was still asleep, Sam’s smile somehow became at once rather shy and yet very determined. He reached a tentative finger to touch the nightshirt, gliding softly from wrist to shoulder, much as he had done before. Using every scrap of willpower he possessed, Frodo managed to hold still beneath the exquisite caress. Somehow, he kept his breaths quiet and even, his eyelids from lifting. For this time Sam did not remove his hand entirely. A darting glance from beneath his lids told Frodo that the hand was hovering, Sam’s fingers now pointing eagerly where Frodo was quite desperate for their touch. 

He waited. Still and silent and inwardly vibrating to the very quick, he waited, as Sam’s hand ventured slowly—so slowly that Frodo feared his _skin_ may scream his frustration—slowly but unerringly to the pert nipple that was all but _waving_ for attention, now. He was almost sure he could feel Sam’s warmth coming closer and closer, and he fought the need to gasp, to open his eyes to the full and watch Sam’s face as he struggled with the temptation to give in to what he wanted—what Frodo so much wanted him—to do. 

Finally—Sam’s finger _finally_ touched him, light and gently hesitant—clearly wanting to give far more than the mere brush that was all he dared risk.

And Frodo groaned aloud from the pleasure of it.

Startled, Sam choked back a cry and made to step away from the bed, but quick as winking, Frodo let go of cloth and seized Sam’s wrists instead.

Shaking within that firm grasp, Sam blushed, his face vivid with guilt. Quite unable to look up, he only fixed his eyes on Frodo’s hands and gave himself up to his deserved imprisonment. 

‘S-s-s—’ he began, but his stammer of apology was lost as Frodo took up one unresisting hand and brought it unhurriedly, palm inward, to his mouth. With pointed tongue he chased the lines that mapped Sam’s life, and painted the same spiralling patterns his fingertips had shown to Sam already. 

‘Is this what you are seeking, Sam—the thrill of touching and being touched that way?’ he asked, the husky murmur returning to him, warm and damp, from the very closeness of that hand. Sam’s eyes had fallen shut, and he shuddered in Frodo’s grasp, under the spell of breath and tongue. That it _was_ a thrill Frodo could not doubt, even before Sam’s stuttered whisper of assent. His own eyes wide now, he could see just _how_ thrilled Sam was. Not even the shame of being caught could diminish his body’s response to Frodo’s touch. 

‘And is this—’ he paused to dart wet trails between Sam’s fingers, instantly feeling the differences—the curve of solid, gardener’s callouses protecting softer, more delicate skin; he thought of that rough-smooth contrast gliding over his own most sensitive places, and he shivered. Nipping lightly, then, at the web from thumb to forefinger, he asked forgiveness in a sweep of tongue and received it in the drag of Sam’s breath that begged where he could not. ‘Is _this_ all that you want of me, or can there be more to it for you, Sam—more than just a need for foreplay?’ 

‘More, sir, please, much more! It’s you—never naught and nobody but you!’ His eyes met Frodo’s, sparking gold now amid the green, and his answer tumbled out so fast and earnest that Frodo could not doubt the truth of it—the truth of Sam’s heart, at last.

And somehow the knowing—the _relief_ —gave him the control not to drag Sam instantly into his bed. This was not the quick and meaningless tumble of a servant such as some gentlehobbits may see as their due. This was his Samwise, who mattered now to Frodo more than anyone left in his world. His Sam should know the sweetness of love-making, so that if in the future he took another to his bed, he would remember only the love and tenderness he had known, and show that to his new love, whoever she—or he—may be.

Sam was trembling now, and Frodo raised a hand once more to his lips, laying a brief kiss to his palm. ‘I should very much like to kiss you, Sam,’ he said, ‘ _properly_ , this time.’ Still holding fast to that hand, he rose onto his knees at the edge of the bed. 

Nightshirt or not, there was now no disguising his desire, and Sam could not mistake his intent. But Frodo had made only a request; the choice must be Sam’s alone. It was one thing to know yourself wanted, quite another to see the evidence so firm and full before you. Frodo remembered his own trepidation when faced with Arlo’s need so long ago; his own first experience of pleasure with a body not his own. 

‘May I, Sam? Please?’

Sam stared, speechless for one endless moment, then swallowed and nodded, an eager desperation clear on his face as he brought up his eyes to meet Frodo’s.

Frodo riffled one hand into his hair, its tawny fall just as silky and arousing as ever he had imagined it to be; gently cupping Sam’s head toward him as the other tilted his chin. The first meeting of their mouths was no more than a slow, dry press of lips, and Frodo knew at once that Sam may have snatched teasing kisses in boisterous teen games—may even have bestowed a shy kiss in more privacy—but he had never dared further than that. He had neither kissed nor been kissed as Frodo invited now—delicate kisses with a damp swirl of tongue to ease their way, his lips plucking softly at Sam’s, suckling them to a riper plumpness.

‘Hold me, Sam, _please_!’ he said, and gasped at the heat of Sam’s hands through thin lawn. The firmness of those honest callouses was lost to a touch as careful as Sam would use for the most precious of his seedlings. 

The very thought increased Frodo’s need for more. He asked in a liquid slide of tongue between top lip and bottom, and Sam replied on a stifled moan, opening to him in an instant. Frodo delved within, relishing the subtle taste of his Sam for the first time, skating his fingers lightly from Sam’s chin down the warm planes of neck and shoulders, down the front of Sam’s shirt to flicker a thumbnail over—

But Sam jerked sharply at that, choking a cry into Frodo’s mouth. He pulled away quickly to fall forward onto the bed.

‘Sam?’ Frodo said, and stroked a hand down his shoulder. But Sam only curled himself into a tight ball, breathing fast, and would neither look at nor answer him. ‘Oh, Sam!’ Tenderness tightened his voice to a whisper as he realised Sam’s embarrassment. He leaned to kiss the little he could see of Sam’s cheek. ‘Don’t fret, love—I take it as a great compliment to my skill! And the very same thing happened to me, when I discovered such pleasure for the first time. Look at me, Sam—please?’

He stroked Sam’s hair back from his ear, and placed a kiss to the soft skin just beneath. Sam hesitated, then rolled onto his back, still keeping his eyes shuttered against Frodo’s gaze. 

‘You aren’t sorry, are you, Sam? I don’t want you to, but if—if this is too much and you feel you must go, I shall understand. I’m sorry, I really did not mean—’

Sam set one hand on Frodo’s arm and shook his head determinedly. ‘It’s only that I feel such a fool, Mr Frodo—like a teen that can’t last more’n five minutes!’

‘I didn’t _want_ you to last, Sam!’ Frodo confessed. ‘I wanted to see you like that—and you turned away at the crucial moment! I shall have to begin all over again…’ He smiled, but then said seriously, ‘Sam, I very much want you in my bed, but you need to know that this is not _play_ of any kind, for me. I love you, Sam, but you are young, there may be others with whom you—’

‘No!’ Sam said. ‘Only ever you, Mr Frodo. When I’m—you know—in bed on my own, like we said,’ one hand, waving downward, indicated all that he couldn’t say aloud, ‘ _then_ , it’s always been you that I—I think of, then. That I imagine—you know, when I…’ He blushed again and his voice trailed off, but Frodo felt a sudden wave of tender understanding for his shy young love.

‘I should like to see you do that, one day,’ he said, with a grin for Sam’s sudden confusion and a blush that out-hued every one that went before, ‘but for now… Do you remember what I said about _really sensitive places_ , Sam? I’m going to show you exactly what I meant!’

‘B—but what about you, Mr Frodo,’ Sam asked. ‘Can’t I…’ He hesitated again, seeming uncertain that he _could_ give to Frodo the pleasure he had just received. 

‘Not yet, Sam. I’m older than you, so I _can_ last!’ Though, he admitted to himself, not for much longer, now; but the pleasure of being with Sam like this was surely worth the wait.

Frodo bent to take Sam’s mouth again, and felt all shyness and anxiety melt into the kiss. Sam was gaining confidence in this, at least, enough that he was kissing as much as he was kissed, and Frodo could not remember such sweetness ever before. He tensed only slightly when Frodo smoothed a hand over him once more, roaming lightly from collar bone to the curve of ribs, unloosing buttons as he went, his fingers slipping beneath Sam’s shirt, then, to trail delicate whorls upon his skin. 

Sam moaned quietly when Frodo ended the kiss, sliding down to take an already taut nipple between his lips. He tugged at it lightly, and Sam’s breath came sharp and hitching; Frodo knew without looking what a wonderful thing it was, in some ways, to be a tween. 

His mouth wandered playfully from one to the other, sucking, flickering—teasing Sam into forgetting just where that hand may be as it quested stealthily, ever lower. Encountering Sam’s waistband, Frodo circled a finger briefly beneath it, smiling into Sam’s skin as he shivered. He skated outward then, over Sam’s hip and down the outside of his thigh, the homespun rough beneath his fingers after the smooth warm stretch of Sam himself. 

And now he brought the hand up slowly, along the inner curve of thigh, and Sam’s legs fell open on the instant, as the other hand paused at the fastening of his breeches.

‘Is this all right, Sam?’ 

Sam could only nod and watch as Frodo’s fingers released button after button. When the last remnants of clothing were pulled away, he managed, ‘S—sticky!’ 

‘Just a little!’ Frodo grinned fondly, and reached for the really useful cloth, wiping away the mess on Sam’s belly. No matter how carefully he tried to avoid it, as yet, his knuckles grazed the solid hardness now returning, and Sam gasped. 

Frodo set aside the cloth and whispered, ‘ _Really sensitive places_ , Sam!’ as he leaned close to bestow more kisses—but not to Sam’s lips, not this time. 

At the first brush of his mouth, Sam jerked and writhed; when Frodo added a wet slide of tongue, he panted harshly. His fists lay slack at his sides, opening and closing helplessly as if he would use them but had not a thought spare to direct them. His eyes met Frodo’s, half-lidded now, their green smudging to a smoky sage, and his mouth moved as if he would say something. No words would come, but the sounds that escaped him—low and desperate in his throat—told Frodo everything he wished to know of Sam’s enjoyment and his desire for more.

‘Shh…’ he soothed, and turned his head to press his lips briefly to the inside of Sam’s thigh, then lifted away to blow again, softly cooling heated skin. ‘I have you, my Samwise…’

The time for play of any kind was past, now, Sam’s need too urgent to wait longer. Frodo set to work in earnest, abandoning light and teasing touches, or the flicker of his tongue, for the solid grasp of one hand above the tangle of wiry curl, and a keenly dedicated suckling. Only moments later Sam was pulsing into his mouth, his face tight with the agony of a pleasure he’d known for the very first time.

Frodo swallowed around him, gentling him back into the world with licks and soft kisses, but he was so close himself, now. He clutched at Sam, pushing, rubbing, twisting fiercely against him, against Sam’s leg, caught up in the most frantic rhythm of all. So close, so _close_ , yet never close enough, until Sam found again the use of his hands. Quite what he intended then, Frodo was never to discover. No sooner had one broad strong hand cupped itself around him than he was _there_ —his body arching into a reckless delight he had not known in many a year.

Languid and boneless from the curls on his head to those that warmed his toes, he still managed somehow to heave himself up to lie beside Sam. Sam smiled at him, a soft and sated smile that showed him to be no less shattered by the love they had made between them. Frodo rolled toward him for a short, sweet kiss, but both hobbits were asleep before either one could say a single word.

###

When next Frodo opened his eyes, the sun had travelled far across the sky—but it was not the change of light and shadow that awoke him.

What woke him was the gradual awareness of mouth and fingers upon him, sliding, stroking, petting… Sam’s careful exploration was magically discovering his every secret place, each tiny stretch or crook of skin that was somehow so much more receptive; that would ever quicken desire within him, swift and sharp. 

A quick flash of surprise melted into wonder, that Sam should be so good at this when he’d not even been properly kissed before today. Yet here he was, not only finding out Frodo’s secrets but using them against him, on him, making him writhe and shudder with desperate need.

How _could_ Sam have taken two short lessons in foreplay to heart so quickly and so completely? 

With an effort, he pushed up onto one elbow. He had to _see_ Sam doing this to him—Sam, who was looking at him now as if Frodo was everything he’d ever wanted and never thought to have. He said nothing, though. No need, after all, to ask if Frodo liked what he was doing, or if he even wanted it at all. Frodo’s body was doing a fine job all on its own of telling Sam just how much it welcomed, how deeply it _revelled_ in his touch. 

He could feel the fine red flush upon his skin, the ache of longing in nipples peaked already, glistening damp yet hopeful still of more. He shivered with anticipation as Sam smiled up at him, and dipped his head to follow the liquid trail he’d paused at Frodo’s waking, lips and tongue working slowly and methodically down and down and— 

And then Sam nudged at him with a tentative lick, circling and sliding wetly, over and around, and Frodo was suddenly harder than he’d ever been before. He drew a sharp breath, his mouth dust-dry now, swallowing tight and almost impossible. 

Sam was panting too, his breath gusting hot and cold over Frodo’s skin as he explored where he had never touched this way before. Frodo splayed his fingers on the sheet below him—splayed and clutched and splayed again—wanting, wanting, _needing_ —but there was no relief to be found there, only in— 

He groaned aloud at the first, the _glorious_ warm wet cling of Sam’s mouth all around him. He tried to thrust for more—more of that deep and careful suckling, more of the wicked tongue that was surely more skilful in these first clumsy, wonderful attempts than ever his could be. But Sam held him effortlessly down with one firm hand, and clicked that agile tongue against him, warning and provocation in one, bringing him closer with every hard-won breath. 

But it wasn’t enough…not yet…not quite…he couldn’t…he… 

_Ahhh!_

Sam’s hand was there, curling tight beneath his mouth, the tightness Frodo needed for that final, dizzying fall. As the pleasure cut through him over and over—terrible and astonishing at once—he heard Sam cry out beside him, and the sudden jerking spatter across his skin said this was no selfish taking of what Sam had so much wanted to give.

‘I liked today’s lesson…even better…than the last!’ Sam panted, still breathless as Frodo tugged him to lie at his side.

‘You learned a great deal from each of them, Sam,’ Frodo said, kissing him softly, ‘and I have _very_ high expectations of the next…’

[](http://www.statcounter.com/)

~#~#~#~

**Author's Note:**

> Unfortunately, they have _still_ not shown me how the next lesson went :-(


End file.
